Many moons ago, Brandon and I went furniture shopping. We fell in love with a huge tangerine-colored leather couch, and somehow got caught up in the fantasy that this thing would last even an hour in our house. These are mean streets here, what with the dogs’ nails and the boy’s rivets on his jeans and the general hard livin’. (So hard we can’t even be bothered with the g’s.)
As nineties band Belly might say, sometimes there’s no poison like a dream. This weekend, my dream of living in a Pottery Barn catalogue officially died. We are the owners of some blue puffy furniture. It’s powerful ugly, and I love it.
In truth, it might not be so much ugly (unlike the camo armchair we saw at the same store) as tacky. Last night, I sat on the couch, the section that reclines. I pulled down the section with the drink holders. (You heard me right.) I saw down with my book and my beer and when Luna popped up next to me and started licking her paw, I nudged her, but didn’t freak out. This motherfucker is indestructible. However tacky the couch may be, indestructability brings its own sort of peace.
Thar she blows: